The rise of Salafism in Tunisia

Those thirsty for spiritual fulfillment are increasingly turning to the Saudi brand of Islam.

In his small shop in Kairouan, Waseem offered me a cup of sweet mint tea. Like most Salafis, he sported the signature look: long beard and trousers rolled up above his ankles. The merchant was different from the rest; he didn’t exchange jovial insults, he lowered his gaze whenever a woman passed by and his hospitality verged on the absurd. I couldn’t help asking why Salafis like him were vilified in the Tunisian media. Waseem didn’t smash up bars or threaten to lop off hands in remote villages like they claimed. The truth is, for a post-revolution Tunisia thirsty for unadulterated freedom, Waseem represented the very antithesis of revolution: an austere and uncompromising brand of Islam imported from Saudi Arabia that sought to snuff out its ideals (whatever they were).

While Waseem causes consternation amongst Tunisian liberals, to Western policy makers he is a potential nightmare. The sort of person who resents any form of intervention of the non-believing kind, who given the right conditions, could transform into a mythological arch enemy of the bin Laden variety. Of course, many want to blame Saudi petro-dollars for brainwashing Tunisian youth but the truth is, if anyone’s to blame it’s the previous regime.

In 1956, the Tunisian president, Habib Bourguiba, set his newly-independent country on a course to catch up with the West. That meant industrialisation, curtailing the influence of religion and, like he had done himself, embracing French political values. Yet careful not to offend religious sensibilities, he refrained from attacking religion directly. Instead he started to undermine religious institutions like Zeitouna and Kairouan colleges that had played an important role in North African Islam for centuries. Bourguiba appropriated the trusts and charities set up for their upkeep. He subdued Islamic jurisprudence and religious courts so that they followed a French model. Preceding France by fifty years, he declared war on that ‘odious rag’, the veil, and introduced the Personal Status Code that guaranteed the legal status of women. Although the code was essentially a reiteration of Islamic law, its French veneer made the religious institutions appear out of touch. Moreover, with a modern education system taught in French and Arabic, the future rested on secular foundations. It alienated many, as Rashid Ghannoushi, Zeitouna alumni and founder of the Ennahda party says: “We were strangers in our own country; we had been educated as Muslims and Arabs, whilst the country was molded in the French cultural identity”. However, Bourguiba’s popularity was such that the religious classes could not muster enough support to oppose him.

Bourguiba’s covert policy of undermining religion paid dividends. In 1960, during the fast of Ramadan, he declared that Tunisian workers were exempt from their religious obligation. In Bourguiba’s mind servicing the economy constituted a jihad and in such situations the obligation was lifted. Of course, the Mufti of Tunis did not see it that way, and refused to ratify his claim; Bourguiba responded by liquidating the repositories of Islamic learning. By 1961 Zeitouna University had been incorporated into the newly-founded University of Tunis, and its precious collection of books on astronomy and mathematics had allegedly found their way into the private collections of the Ben Ali clan.

That left spiritually hungry Tunisians turning to whatever was available. With the government eliminating real opposition parties and indigenous religious institutions, the young found the sound bites, pamphlets, and banned books closer to the truth. As Izzedine, a book seller in the old city of Tunis says: “The banned books of Salafi scholars became highly sought after during the Bourguiba and Ben Ali era”. The famed Tunisian moderateness or wasatiya weakened because of the brutal repression of Tunisian Islamists in the 80s and the 90s. It left the way open for a de-contextualized Salafism.

Waseem’s story is a classic example; thirsty for spiritual fulfillment, he had joined Tabligh Jamaat, one of the world’s largest non-political organizations that proselytised Islam. He soon became profoundly disappointed with the organisation because they discouraged him from studying Islam and politically engaging with the system. Having no indigenous institution to turn to, he took for truth whatever was available as long as it was anti-government and soon embraced the Saudi brand of Islam. However, the election victory by Algerian Islamists in the 90s meant that the regime cracked down on people like him. Before the age of 20 he had been arrested and tortured for attending the congregational dawn prayer.

In a strange quirk of fate he escaped and found refuge in Gaddafi's Libya only to return once Ben Ali had fallen. Ironically, it seems that the rise of Salafism in Tunisia was not because of Saudi petro-dollars but because of a secular dictatorship trying to impose its own values on its people.
 

Graffiti in La Marsa reading 'God is great,' left by rioters. Photograph: Getty Images

Tam Hussein is an award winning writer and journalist specialising in the Middle East. He spent several years in the Middle East and North Africa working as a translator and consultant. Tam also writes for the Huffington Post.

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"We repealed, then forgot": the long shadow of Section 28 homophobia

Why are deeply conservative views about the "promotion" of homosexuality still being reiterated to Scottish school pupils? 

Grim stories of LGBTI children being bullied in school are all too common. But one which emerged over the weekend garnered particular attention - because of the echoes of the infamous Section 28, nearly two decades after it was scrapped.

A 16-year-old pupil of a West Lothian school, who does not wish to be named, told Pink News that staff asked him to remove his small rainbow pride badge because, though they had "no problem" with his sexuality, it was not appropriate to "promote it" in school. It's a blast from the past - the rules against "promoting" homosexuality were repealed in 2000 in Scotland, but the long legacy of Section 28 seems hard to shake off. 

The local authority responsible said in a statement that non-school related badges are not permitted on uniforms, and says it is "committed to equal rights for LGBT people". 

The small badge depicted a rainbow-striped heart, which the pupil said he had brought back from the Edinburgh Pride march the previous weekend. He reportedly "no longer feels comfortable going to school", and said homophobia from staff members felt "much more scar[y] than when I encountered the same from other pupils". 

At a time when four Scottish party leaders are gay, and the new Westminster parliament included a record number of LGBTQ MPs, the political world is making progress in promoting equality. But education, it seems, has not kept up. According to research from LGBT rights campaigners Stonewall, 40 per cent of LGBT pupils across the UK reported being taught nothing about LGBT issues at school. Among trans students, 44 per cent said school staff didn’t know what "trans" even means.

The need for teacher training and curriculum reform is at the top of campaigners' agendas. "We're disappointed but not surprised by this example," says Jordan Daly, the co-founder of Time for Inclusive Education [TIE]. His grassroots campaign focuses on making politicians and wider society aware of the reality LGBTI school students in Scotland face. "We're in schools on a monthly basis, so we know this is by no means an isolated incident." 

Studies have repeatedly shown a startling level of self-harm and mental illness reported by LGBTI school students. Trans students are particularly at risk. In 2015, Daly and colleagues began a tour of schools. Shocking stories included one in which a teacher singled out a trans pupils for ridicule in front of the class. More commonly, though, staff told them the same story: we just don't know what we're allowed to say about gay relationships. 

This is the point, according to Daly - retraining, or rather the lack of it. For some of those teachers trained during the 1980s and 1990s, when Section 28 prevented local authorities from "promoting homosexuality", confusion still reigns about what they can and cannot teach - or even mention in front of their pupils. 

The infamous clause was specific in its homophobia: the "acceptability of homosexuality as a pretended family relationship" could not be mentioned in schools. But it's been 17 years since the clause was repealed in Scotland - indeed, it was one of the very first acts of the new Scottish Parliament (the rest of the UK followed suit three years later). Why are we still hearing this archaic language? 

"We repealed, we clapped and cheered, and then we just forgot," Daly says. After the bitter campaign in Scotland, in which an alliance of churches led by millionaire businessman Brian Souter poured money into "Keeping the Clause", the government was pleased with its victory, which seemed to establish Holyrood as a progressive political space early on in the life of the parliament. But without updating the curriculum or retraining teaching staff, Daly argues, it left a "massive vacuum" of uncertainty. 

The Stonewall research suggests a similar confusion is likely across the UK. Daly doesn't believe the situation in Scotland is notably worse than in England, and disputes the oft-cited allegation that the issue is somehow worse in Scotland's denominational schools. Homophobia may be "wrapped up in the language of religious belief" in certain schools, he says, but it's "just as much of a problem elsewhere. The TIE campaign doesn't have different strategies for different schools." 

After initial disappointments - their thousands-strong petition to change the curriculum was thrown out by parliament in 2016 - the campaign has won the support of leaders such as Nicola Sturgeon and Kezia Dugdale, and recently, the backing of a majority of MSPs. The Scottish government has set up a working group, and promised a national strategy. 

But for Daly, who himself struggled at a young age with his sexuality and society's failure to accept it, the matter remains an urgent one.  At just 21, he can reel off countless painful stories of young LGBTI students - some of which end in tragedy. One of the saddest elements of the story from St Kentigern's is that the pupil claimed his school was the safest place he had to express his identity, because he was not out at home. Perhaps for a gay pupil in ten years time, that will be a guarantee. 

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